


Orange Crush

by ghostboi



Series: Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Possessive Dean, Pre-Slash, Protective Dean, Serial Killer Dean, Taking Care Of Sam, Underage - Freeform, pre-serial killer, pre-wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:25:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5830822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sammy likes oranges. Dean likes Sammy liking oranges.<br/>(Part of the 'serial killer Dean' series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orange Crush

**Author's Note:**

> pre-serial killer Dean  
> Underage.

It was 7 a.m., and the old alarm clock sitting on the floor was buzzing incessantly. Dean reached over the side of the bed, feeling around for it with sleep-clumsy fingers. His fingertips finally brushed plastic, and he pushed the button to shut off the alarm.

The fifteen year old sat up in the bed, rubbing a hand over sleep-heavy eyes. His eyes shifted to the bundle of limbs and skin and hair pressed up against his side, and he reached out to brush his fingers over his little brother’s arm. He wanted to lay back down and cuddle up with Sam, but he had some place to be.

Dean scooted out of the bed, shushing his brother as Sam reached for him in his sleep, muttering incoherent words beneath his breath. A soft “Go back to sleep, Sammy,” whispered near the smaller boy’s ear had Sam settling back into sleep. Dean tugged the blanket up over his shoulders and smiled fondly at his little brother, then crossed the room to grab his jeans. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in the living room of the old place where they were currently housed. He stared down at his father for a long minute – John Winchester was asleep (passed out, more accurately) on the worn old couch, one arm slung over his eyes and the other hanging down to brush the floor.

Dean nudged the hanging arm with the toe of his hiking boot. He did it a second time, harder, and John snuffled and muttered in his sleep.

“John.” 

The man remained unresponsive. Dean nudged his arm again, harder this time, and barked, “John!”  
He wanted to kick the man in the head but settled for the satisfaction of John’s eyes shooting open in surprise and cracking his elbow on the couch arm as he tried to sit up.

“Wha?” the man muttered, raising bleary eyes to Dean, “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“We need food,” he informed the man, hands shoved in his jacket pocket, “which means I need money.”

The man stared at him for a moment, blinking; Dean exhaled slowly, before asking, “Where’s your wallet?”

“Jacket pocket,” the man muttered, lying back down and covering his eyes again. Moments later, the man was snoring lightly.

Dean stared at him for a moment, a scowl etching his brow. He blinked as he felt a sharp pain and glanced down at his hand, to find four crescent-shaped indentions in his palm, made by his blunt nails. He stared at them for a moment before moving across the room to dig through his John's jacket pocket, in search of his wallet. He found it and the keys to the Impala. He flipped open the wallet and pulled out all but $20, then tossed it on top of the jacket. He pocketed the money and, car keys hanging from one finger, left the house.

Less than two hours later, Dean was carrying a handful of plastic grocery bags into the kitchen. He was almost finished putting away the groceries when Sam entered the kitchen.

“Morning, Sammy,” the teen shot his baby brother a smile; it turned into a full-blown grin as Sam rubbed his eyes and told him, “Got cold in there without you so I got up.” The boy seated himself at the table, watching as Dean finished putting the groceries away. He perked up as the teen picked up a bag of oranges from the counter and sat them on the table.

“You’re the best, Dean! Thanks,” Sam shot him a grin, complete with dimple, and tore open the netting to get to the oranges. Dean watched, his heart thudding in his chest like drums at the sight of his baby brother’s smile and that adorable dimple. He had grabbed the oranges in the market for that very reason: to see that light-bright smile light his face. He cleared his throat and turned to pour himself a cup of coffee as he replied,

“Welcome. Can’t have you getting scurvy or anything.” 

He smiled over the rim of his coffee cup as Sam rolled his eyes and laughed,  
“Aye aye, captain.” 

Five minutes later, Dean was clutching the counter he was leaning against with one hand and the handle of his coffee cup with the other. He had watched as Sam carefully peeled his orange, placing the peels in a little pile on the table. Now his brother was eating it by sections. Dean watched, unable to force his eyes away, as Sam bit into a section and then sucked the juice from it. Juice from the orange ran down his fingers, and he stuck them in his mouth. When he began sucking them clean, Dean’s hand which was holding the coffee cup shook. He sat the cup on the counter; that left that hand free to grip the counter on his other side.

He was hard in his jeans from watching his little brother eat an orange. 

Sam pulled his fingers out of his mouth, clean now of orange juice. He raised his eyes to Dean and asked, “Want some?”

He did. By all the powers, he did, but it wasn’t oranges he wanted. Oh, maybe if he was licking them off of Sam’s mouth, or sucking their juices off his little brother’s tongue.. He remained silent, afraid to speak, and simply shook his head no. 

Sam went back to his orange – and his innocent, unknowing torment of his big brother – and Dean reminded himself yet again that his brother was only 11 years old, and off-limits. 

“Be right back,” he muttered finally, unable to take the torment any longer of watching Sam lick and suck the orange, hear the sounds his perfect, clever little mouth was making, “I’ll fix you breakfast in a few minutes.”

Three minutes later, Dean was leaning against the locked bathroom door, jeans shoved down and stripping his cock, fast and hard. He gripped his aching shaft tight, eyes closed as he replayed in his head the way his brother’s mouth looked, wet with orange juice. The sounds he made while eating the fruit. The way he sucked his fingers clean..

Dean bit down on his fist as he came, to muffle his groan of pleasure, his cum painting the bathroom door. He leaned heavily against the door, gasping for breath through his parted lips, forehead resting against the cool wood. 

When his breathing had steadied a bit, he tugged his jeans up and tucked himself in them. He snatched a damp towel from the hamper in the corner and cleaned his cum off the bathroom door, pausing as he wondered (not for the first time) what his brother would look like, covered in his fluids. _Beautiful_ , his brain supplied, _He would be beautiful, like always_. Dean shook his head and finished cleaning up, lobbing the towel back in the hamper. He washed his hands, then headed for the kitchen to make his Sammy some breakfast.


End file.
